


like rubies in the red night

by consultingwives (westminsterabi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Female-Centric, Implied Johnlock, Oral Sex, irene seduces molly, molly is a lesbian, molly is also a pillow princess, pwp (kinda), this shit is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8843416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminsterabi/pseuds/consultingwives
Summary: Molly is on her way to Greg's Christmas party when she runs into an unexpected face, who invites her home for the night. What ensues is the best sex of Molly's life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from hayley kiyoko's 'ease my mind'. 
> 
> this fic is for petratodd, who apparently thinks that lesbian molly is lesbophobic.

Molly Hooper is above all, a scientist. She spent years in medical school to graduate with her degree and every time she sees it hung up on her wall she flushes with pride. She used to vomit whenever she saw a corpse, but after a few weeks that went away, and now what she’s left with is a job well done, every single day of the week, every week of the year. Except, sometimes, Christmas. Sometimes.

 

To Molly, every time she makes a y-incision she can feel her pulse slow and her hands steady. She’s done these a thousand times, probably. She is Dr Molly Hooper, technically, and ever since Sherlock Holmes’ smirking face stopped spending so much time around here, she stands up straighter, has felt her hands shake less, hears an authoritative edge in her voice. Maybe Sherlock spending less time around here is a blessing, after all. She once wrote that he made her feel like a mouse. The last time she saw him, he’d asked for coffee and she told him to get it himself. That feels like progress to Molly Hooper.

 

She’s hanging up her lab coat and scrubbing out at the end of the day when it occurs to her that she should probably have bought a Christmas gift for Greg or something. Sherlock and John aren’t having a Christmas party this year, but Greg invited her to his and it would probably be discourteous not to bring _anything._ (A bottle of wine, maybe.) Molly pulls the elastic out of her hair and shakes it out. It’s better to wear it down in winter, since she usually goes bare-necked and her hair keeps her a little warmer. She pulls her gloves and coat out of her locker and double-checks to make sure she’s not carrying out anything or leaving something she shouldn’t. But it’s all there—phone, coat, gloves, handbag. She hasn’t got entrails in her pocket. (This has happened before).

 

Molly walks down to Holborn, where she knows there _has_ to be a liquor store where she can grab something before she takes the tube to Greg’s. She ducks into the first one she sees. There’s only one other customer, a dark-haired, average-height woman who looks strikingly like—oh my god.

 

Molly knows where she’s seen that face before. Holy shit. She signed the _death certificate_ on that face. Irene Adler (if that was even her real name) meets her eyes and smirks. Molly feels her cheeks grow hot and thinks about turning tail and leaving. She doesn’t, though, although she suddenly feels much, much more conscious of her ratty jumper and old coat that’s due for a dust-off. Her eyes dart around, looking for something, _anything_ else to look at besides this gorgeous woman in heels and a sexy black dress that’s showing off her curves. It’s showing off her curves _really_ well, and as soon as Molly notices this her cheeks grow even hotter.

 

If Molly remembers right, Irene has had sex with at least one member of the royal family.

 

It’s been maybe a fraction of a second since the bell on the door rang to announce Molly, but it’s been enough time for Molly to see and remember all of this, and for Irene’s eyes, which Molly expected just to graze right over her, to linger and size her up.

 

 _She’s checking me out,_ Molly realises with a twinge of pride. Irene smiles at her.

 

“He- _llo_ ,” Irene says. One of her eyebrows is arched practically to her hairline, and that draws Molly’s attention. Molly’s eyes widen. She looks at Irene—really _looks_ at her. She’s wearing a pair of black stilettos that make her seem much taller than Molly, who is wearing ballet flats with stockings. Her dress must be made out of elastic or spandex or something, because it’s hugging her tightly all over. Molly looks at her breasts—it’s hard to keep from noticing them—and feels a peculiar twinge somewhere below her waist. That only makes her flush harder.

 

“Are you just going to stand there?” Irene asks. One corner of her mouth is upturned, and that eyebrow still hasn’t lowered. “Or are you going to buy something?”

 

“I’m going to buy something!” shouts Molly, before realising how loud she’s being, and how she’s spent an uncomfortable amount of time in the doorway. It hits her that Irene probably doesn’t know who she is, and wonders if this is an uncomfortable time to bring up the fact that Molly once did an autopsy on what was purported to be this woman’s corpse. It’s probably always an uncomfortable time for something like that.

 

Molly’s eyes dart over to the brandy and she runs to the shelf to grab the first bottle she sees. “I wouldn’t get that one if I were you,” Irene says, without looking at her. “Nasty flavor, that one. Tastes like varnish, if you ask me.”

 

“Well,” says Molly defensively (her cheeks are still red) “what are _you_ going to get?”

 

“Me? I’m going to get this,” says Irene, finally turning around to look at Molly. She holds up a bottle of expensive Chianti. “If it’s not too forward of me, perhaps you’d like to drink it with me, instead of that swill.”

 

Molly isn’t certain that she hasn’t melted into a puddle right on the floor of Nicolas. “I—you—what—,“ she stammers, “I don’t even know you—I, look—you’re very attractive” ( _oh my god!!_ ) “but you’re really not my type, um, I’m into men! I like men! Not women! I don’t know what you’re asking but I don’t—I don’t know who you are! I’m flattered, I really am!”

 

Irene laughs, full-bellied, sharp, derisive. “You’re a bad liar.”

 

The shopkeeper is on his phone, thank god, just watching, hopefully, hopefully not listening.

 

“I know you know who I am,” she continues. She leans in and whispers in Molly’s ear, “ _I make a point of researching anyone associated so closely with Sherlock Holmes, particularly those who’ve signed my death certificates._ ”

 

“Well,” Molly says quietly, “it feels polite to just lie about something like that.”

 

“That’s not why I was calling you a liar.”

 

“What?”

 

“ _I’m into men, not women_?”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“You should come home with me, Molly Hooper, I feel like we’d have a lot to talk about.”

 

Molly looks mournfully at the bottle of brandy and puts it back on the shelf. Not like Greg will miss her. She wonders if she’s making a terrible mistake. “All right, then.”

 

“The car’s outside.”

 

-

 

Molly wonders how Irene can afford a place like this before she remembers what kind of clientele she serves and how much they probably pay for her discretion. Then it makes a little more sense. Irene leads her up the front stairs by the hand, and Molly feels a tingling sensation where their flesh meets.

 

“Didn’t you ever wonder why you never wanted to have sex with the men you dated?”

 

“I didn’t just like men I _dated,_ there was Sherlock as well—“

 

“Darling, let’s not talk about Sherlock. Answer my question. Did you ever wonder?”

 

Molly turns beet red when Irene calls her darling. She supposes that Irene tries to establish intimacy right away with most people. She wonders if she’ll receive an invoice after she leaves. “I never thought about it like that.”

 

“Maybe you should have.” Irene doesn’t look playful here, she looks dead serious. She drops Molly’s hand and looks back at her and she digs a set of keys out of her coat pocket.

 

“How did you know?”

 

Irene selects the key to the house and turns it in the lock before pushing the door open. She stands in the threshold. It’s dusk by now, and the orange light is casting a sharp shadow on Irene’s lovely cheekbones. “I always know.” She blinks, and Molly sees her dark green eyeliner and wonders if Irene would teach her how to wing it like that.

 

Molly isn’t sure how to bring up what she’s worrying about. “You’re not—going to charge me for this, are you?”

 

Irene laughs. “God no. What kind of con artist do you think I am?”

 

“I thought, more like a seductress.” _Am I flirting,_ Molly wonders.

 

“Are you trying to flirt with me, Molly Hooper?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You do quite well.” Irene gestures to the coat closet, and when Molly has hung hers, leads the way through the dark house into the kitchen, where she flicks on the lights and opens one carved oak cabinet to remove two long-stemmed crystal wineglasses. “Chianti?”

 

“Isn’t that why I’m here?”

 

“You’re here because I invited you and you said yes. Everything and anything is optional.”

 

Molly suddenly becomes aware of the echoing silence in the house. She can’t hear any activity besides the two of them. Meanwhile, Irene is uncorking the wine and pouring each of them a generous amount.

 

“Here.” Irene slides her a glass and Molly takes a sip.

 

“This might be the best wine I’ve ever had.”

 

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

 

Molly nods.

 

“So,” says Irene. She takes a sip of wine. “How has your life been since you signed off on that death certificate of mine?”

 

“Well,” said Molly, “I’m sure you heard about Sherlock, and all that. That all happened. In between it was mostly uneventful. I went with him on a few cases. Uh, got engaged. To a man.” She absentmindedly fingers the flesh where her ring used to sit. Molly doesn’t want to think about Tom. She takes a gulp of wine. “Saw Mary and John’s wedding.”

 

“Right, poor thing.”

 

“D’you mean John?”

 

“I mean both of them.”

 

“Mary and John?”

 

“Sherlock and John.”

 

“Right.” Molly purses her lips and looks down at her feet. “Why did you invite me here?”

 

“Because I’m interested,” says Irene. “Sit down, if you want.” She gestures to a stool at the bar and takes the one opposite, so that she and Molly will be facing each other if Molly sits. Molly sits. “Because you’re really very cute. You’re intelligent, otherwise Sherlock wouldn’t have ever bothered keeping you around. Not that I care about what he thinks.”

 

“I thought we weren’t talking about him.” Molly sips the wine.

 

“I did say that, didn’t I? As good a rule as any. Fine, I invited you here because I’m interested. Is that good enough?”

 

Molly shrugs and sips. She’s downed almost half the glass.

 

Irene sits forward on her elbows, so that their faces are almost touching. “You never did finish telling me what you’ve been up to these past five years.”

 

“Right,” says Molly, trying to think of any way to distract herself from Irene’s catlike, bright blue eyes, which feel like they’re piercing Molly straight to her core. As if she’s picking Molly apart and seeing her straight to the inside. It’s a gaze she knows well, from looking at a similar pair of penetrating ice-blue eyes, but instead of making her shiver it makes her feel warm. It makes her blush, wondering what Irene sees, and if she _likes_ what she sees. “Well, broke off the engagement, of course.” She holds up her left hand and wiggles her ring finger for extra effect. “Don’t have much to do with…the crime business these days. Occasionally I’ll get something, but not too busy. Just doing my job. It’s good work. Useful work. Somebody has got to do it, and I actually do enjoy it.”

 

“I knew there had to be something else to you, Molly Hooper.” Irene is leaning in even closer.

 

“How d’you mean?”

 

“No one that _enjoys_ her job as a pathologist can actually be a normal, ordinary human being.”

 

Molly feels a shot of tingling warmth, not just through her cheeks, but through her whole body, straight down to right between her legs.

 

“In fact, now that I come to think of it, I don’t think any _normal, ordinary_ human being would have become a pathologist in the first place. Maybe a surgeon, or a GP. Not a pathologist. There’s something special about you, Molly. Something fascinating.”

 

“Well,” says Molly. “Irene—can I call you Irene?” she nods. “Yes. Irene, but for your part I don’t think any ordinary human being would become a…well, what do you call your line of work?”

 

“I prefer the term ‘dominatrix’.”

 

“Yes, then. A dominatrix.”

 

“But I don’t pretend to be normal to the world. You make a grand effort, and you do a very good job.”

 

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

 

“Very much indeed,” says Irene, straightening up and taking another sip of her wine.

 

Molly feels the airy happiness typical from a single glass of alcohol reaching her head, and it makes her calmer than she thinks she would have been otherwise.

 

“Well, for my part, I think you’re extraordinary. From what I’ve heard of you secondhand.”

 

“What, the dominatrix who _nearly_ brought a nation to its knees? Hardly worth writing home about.” Irene checks her nails and looks back into Molly’s eyes. There’s something peculiarly feline about her gaze, perhaps it’s the odd degree of analytical coldness that seems to be present, despite the positive warmth that Molly is feeling from Irene. “I didn’t even accomplish the job I set out to do.”

 

“Well, you got close.”

 

“You’re not supposed to know that.”

 

“You’d be surprised at the state secrets Sherlock spills when he’s sleep-deprived.” Wondering if she’s being presumptuous but ultimately not caring, Molly walks to the cupboard, takes out a class, and fills it from the tap.

 

“Naughty boy. But we put a moratorium on the subject.”

 

Molly gulps down the water and taps her fingers nervously against the class. “Yes we did.”

 

“Would you like to maybe avoid the subject? Perhaps by not talking?” Irene arches her eyebrow again. It’s a question, a proposition.

 

Molly’s eyes grow wide. “I don’t know.” She pauses to consider. “I’ve never been with a woman before. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

 

“I’m not necessarily accustomed to people _knowing_ what to do. Showing is usually better.”

 

“All right then.” She throws down the rest of the water and puts the glass down on the counter. Just the prospect of sex with Irene has make the heat between Molly’s legs flare up. She’s never felt this excited at the idea of sex, never in her life.

 

“Don’t blame me if you never want to be with a man again,” says Irene, gesturing towards the stairs.

 

Molly doesn’t reply, but follows Irene up to the bedroom, which is dimly lit.

 

“Pick your poison,” says Irene, gesturing around the room. There’s an impressive array of toys, whips, cuffs, things Molly doesn’t even know the name of.

 

“I don’t know,” says Molly, suddenly overwhelmed

 

“Vanilla,” says Irene with a sharp nod. “That’s fine.” She runs a hand through her hair and draws close to Molly, leaning in for a kiss. Molly closes the distance, presses her mouth against Irene’s and feels her soft lips, surely cared for with the most expensive cosmetics, Molly thinks, hoping that the chapstick she normally uses doesn’t taste terrible, which is something she has never worried about before. Molly’s mouth molds to Irene’s, tasting her, exploring her lips. The tips of their tongues meet, and they move together. Irene’s tongue is first, working its way into Molly’s mouth and running around her teeth before she moves and makes room for Molly to try.

 

Irene’s hand moves to Molly’s arse and she gives it a tight squeeze that sends shivers of anticipation up Molly’s spine. Molly can feel a wetness growing between her legs, a pulsing that she has never felt before. She desires Irene, she wants to _feel_ Irene between her legs, she wants Irene to pleasure her, to give her an orgasm. The prospect isn’t terrifying, not like it was with Tom, and Sherlock—well, she never thought about getting this far with Sherlock, but the moment the thought hits her she draws back into herself and grows tight.

 

“What’s wrong?” asks Irene, drawing away from Molly’s face, but not breaking her caress. She runs a hand up to Molly’s breasts and circles a thumb around where Molly’s nipple lies underneath her blouse.

 

“Nothing,” says Molly, wide-eyed. “Please. Please keep going.”

 

“How far do you want me to go?”

 

“As far as you like, as far as you can,” says Molly, and as if to make a point, she pushes Irene away for a moment, pulls her jumper over her head and throws it to the side.

 

“Don’t tell me to go as far as I like. This is what I do for a living, darling. Take off your shirt?” Molly does it.

 

Irene moves in again, pushing their mouths together and unclasping Molly’s bra. Molly obliges, moving her arms out of the straps and pausing while Irene throws that aside as well. Irene tastes like lipstick and expensive wine. Molly’s tongue goes between Irene’s lips and explores, touching her teeth, the roof of her mouth, pushing and pulling as the sensation between Molly’s legs grows even more intense. She squirms under Irene’s touch and eventually stops to pull off her trousers and knickers.

 

She has never felt this comfortable while naked before. Irene sizes her up and smiles. “On the bed? What would you like me to do?”

 

“Whatever you like.”

 

“Toys?”

 

Molly shakes her head.

 

“All right then, the old-fashioned way.”

 

Molly lies down on the bed gently and Irene uses two soft hands to pull her thighs apart slowly. Molly feels as if she is salivating.

 

“This is all right?” asks Irene eagerly. Her gaze doesn’t look feline any more, she looks almost, Molly thinks, like a puppy. She smiles wide. Irene is still wearing her dress.

 

“Do you want to take off your clothes?”

 

“Maybe on the second date,” Irene says.

 

“It’s all right,” says Molly, and she lies back, not sure what to expect. She feels a wetness near her clitoris, a pushing, undulating sensation that she realises must be Irene’s tongue. No boyfriend has ever given her head before. This is entirely new. Each flick of the tongue makes Molly’s back arch, makes her twitch and gasp. She cries out, wishing that Irene would go inside her, wishing with all her heart, feeling, despite herself, that something needs to _go_ there, that if Irene just put her fingers in there, she would be able to come immediately. But Irene doesn’t, and Molly says nothing.

 

Instead, Irene continues working on the tiny nub of flesh above, teasing the area around while Molly cries out for more. She feels a warmth building up between her legs, everywhere in her body, in her breasts, in her hands, in her toes. It’s a tingling, electrifying sensation that seems to be leading somewhere, but Molly can’t get there fast enough.

 

“Breathe, darling” she says to Molly, and in the moment it took Irene to say that, Molly lost it.

 

“I lost it!” she cries.

 

“Don’t worry,” says Irene with smirk, putting her head back down. Molly feels it again, right there, moving up and against her clitoris, sending a warm, pleasant feeling up and down Molly’s body every time it runs up and down. Then it moves away, to the surrounding flesh, and Molly feels it circle the area that she _most_ wants Irene to hit. Molly bites her lip, hoping that Irene knows what she’s doing.

 

The warm feeling continues to build in Molly’s back and stomach, like a swelling balloon, almost at the point of bursting. Irene pauses for a moment, and some of the pressure rushes out. Molly counts to five before Irene starts again, faster than ever, pushing Molly past the point of no return until—Molly screams, it feels as though she is shattering into a million pieces, a million pieces of the warmest, most electric feeling that she has ever felt.

 

“Holy shit!” she cries.

 

“I told you I was a professional,” says Irene, caressing Molly’s thighs and working back up to her mouth, where she kisses her. Molly tastes herself on Irene’s lips. She is salty and pungent.

 

“That was amazing,” says Molly. Irene moves up the bed to lie beside her and runs a hand down Molly’s chest, between her breasts down to her belly. She gently strokes the area around Molly’s belly button.

 

“Would you like another one?”

 

“I think I need a moment to recover,” says Molly.

 

“I’m here any time you like, Molly Hooper,” says Irene. “Free of charge.”


End file.
